A Part of Me, Not All of Me

Today, someone gave me a prompt to use in Chat gpt... 

“What would your trauma look like as a painting?”

And honestly? Even though it was just a simple line... I swallowed heavily just reading the word trauma. Like I always do. 

Because every time I hear that word, it feels like something opens inside my head. Not gently. More like someone throws open a door I normally try to keep closed.

Suddenly, it all flashes before my eyes.

The memories.

The water.

The white water lilies floating on the surface.

The red mushrooms in the forest.

My little brother's blue eyes.

The smells... 

The hospital.

The white corridor.

My mother's scream.

His cold forehead.

My teddy bear in his arms.

And then everything else comes with it. The loneliness. The feeling of not being seen. The losses. The bullying. The fear. The sexual abuse. The betrayals. The relationships that hurt instead of feeling safe. The threats and ultimatums... The feeling of being in a cage. The people I trusted who broke something in me.

And for a moment, it doesn't feel like the past.

It feels like I am there again.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back.

Not necessarily to change everything. Because I know life doesn't work like that.

But back to before.

Before I knew how quickly life could change.

Before I knew what it felt like to lose someone.

Before I learned that people who are supposed to care for you can also hurt you.

Before I became so careful about trust.

Before I learned how exhausting it can be to carry things you don't even have words for.

I sometimes miss the version of me who didn't know.

The little girl who thought life was simpler.

But this isn't me writing a post asking for sympathy. Far from it. 

And it isn't me trying to be the victim.

I don't want people to look at my life and think, “Oh, poor her.”

Because yes, things happened to me.

Things that hurt me. Things that changed me. Shaped me. Things that I wish had never happened.

But what happened to me is not the same as who I am.

I am not just the little girl who lost her brother.

I am not just the girl who felt alone.

I am not just someone who was hurt, abused, betrayed, cheated on, controlled, or made to feel small.

Those things are part of my story.

But they are not the whole book.

For a long time, I think I carried my past almost like proof that I was damaged. Like every bad thing that happened left another label on me.

Broken.

Too sensitive.

Too emotional.

Too much.

Hard to love. 

And with trust issues. 

But maybe surviving doesn't mean you walk away untouched.

Maybe surviving means you carry scars.

And maybe scars don't have to be something shameful.

I am still learning that I don't have to erase my past to move forward. I don't have to pretend it didn't hurt. I don't have to be grateful for the pain because it “made me stronger.” Honestly, I wish I hadn't needed to become this strong.

But I did survive.

Somehow.

I survived days I didn't think I would get through.

I survived versions of myself who were hurting silently.

I survived losing people.

I survived feeling invisible.

I survived giving trust and having it broken.

And despite everything, there is still a part of me that wants to love. That wants to trust. That wants to laugh. To sing. To create. To dream. To see beautiful things. To have arms wide open for the world, and give love, warmth and kindness. 

I still notice flowers.

I still notice butterflies.

I still want light in my home.

I still believe there must be something better ahead.

And maybe that is the part of me I am most proud of.

Not that I survived terrible things.

But that terrible things didn't take everything from me.

So if I were to paint my trauma, I don't think it would be a painting of a victim.

I think it would be layers.

Darkness and light.

Maybe... A little girl standing by the water, with white lilies floating nearby.

Cracks filled with gold.

Broken pieces.

Hands that hurt.

Hands that let go.

But also flowers growing through the cracks.

An open window.

Fresh air.

Butterflies.

A path leading forward.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, there would be me.

Not standing there pretending that nothing happened.

Not standing there asking to be rescued.

Just standing there as a warrior... A lightworker... and saying... 

“This happened. It hurt me. It changed parts of me. But it did not define me.”

Because I am more than what I survived.

All those things we try not to think about, still have a way of quietly finding their way to the surface, when we least expect them.

Maybe that's what healing really is. Not forgetting what happened. Not pretending it didn't hurt. But learning that when those memories resurface, they don't get to decide who we are.

It is a part of me. But it is not all of me. And I refuse to let it become all I am ❤️

Just... Thoughts in the quiet night... 

- Merry -